


not for the fearful

by Sibilant



Series: Pittsburgh!verse [2]
Category: (500) Days of Summer (2009), Warrior (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Crossover, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“So,” Tommy says, “I guess that’s settled then, huh? You’re—you’re definitely going for the whole year.”</i>
</p><p>Tom is going to Rome for a year. Tommy isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not for the fearful

**Author's Note:**

> An anon requested a drabble/snippet from [we do not live (in simple terms and places)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/823610/chapters/1561563). I dusted off a WIP, intending to polish it up just a bit, and... got a little carried away.
> 
> This is a future fic, set roughly 3 - 4 years after the conclusion of 'we do not live'. This fic might not make sense if you haven't read that fic. There are technically no spoilers in this fic, unless you count Tom and Tommy being a couple as a spoiler ;D

**April, 2001**

The letter comes toward the end of semester, in the middle of Tom’s desperate push to complete his design studio final.

It’s Mitch who delivers the letter, dropping it in Tom’s lap whilst Tom tries to simultaneously hold his model together and glue the second level onto it. Tom gives him a reflexive, wild-eyed glare, before his brain registers just what Mitch has dropped in his lap. Tom’s mouth falls open.

Mitch, for his part, shrugs the glare off. He’s in his final year of his architecture degree, and he more than understands the mania that descends on studio in the last weeks of semester. He simply smiles peaceably, pats Tom on the shoulder and says, “Fingers crossed, yeah?” before ambling off in the direction of the senior design studio rooms.

Tom tears the envelope open, right there and then, heedless of maintaining his model’s structural integrity. His fingers are tacky from glue, and he has to waste frustrating seconds trying to get the letter unstuck from his fingers and unfolded properly. He skims the letter, heart hammering. Then he reads it again, slower this time. Then he reads it a  _third_  time, just to make sure he’s seeing things right, because— he  _is_  seeing things right, isn't he? His eyesight isn’t messed up. He’s never had a problem with reading comprehension, there’s no history of dyslexia in his family...

Yeah.

Tom is  _definitely_  reading the letter right, which means—

Tom takes off to find Tommy.

 

* * *

 

Tommy is just leaving the Joyner wrestling room when Tom finds him.

Tom makes a beeline for him, grinning, waving the letter and crowing, “I did it! I got it!”

Tommy catches Tom as he half-barrels into him, and wraps his arms around him automatically. “Did what?” He asks, laughing. “And got what?” His hair is damp from the shower, and Tom can feel the heat radiating off him, even through the layers of their clothes. He leans into that warmth unashamedly before holding up the letter, eyes bright.

“The travel grant,” Tom says. “I got it. I won’t have to—well, Mom and Martin won’t have to pay when I go to Rome.”

“Of course you got it,” Tommy replies. “You’re Tom fucking Hansen.” He smiles at Tom – pleased, warm, and  _proud_  – and Tom basks in it. There’ll probably never be a time when Tommy’s regard  _doesn’t_  matter to him, he thinks.

Then Tommy’s smile fades. He bites at his lip. “So,” Tommy says, “I guess that’s settled then, huh? You’re—you’re definitely going for the whole year.”

Tom’s stomach clenches. The current of excitement thrumming through him dies down, and his grin dims, too. “Well,” he says, stumbling over his words, “it’s not—I don’t  _have_  to go for the whole year. I mean, most people in the program are only going for a semester, I—” 

Tommy takes the letter away from him. He slings his free arm over Tom’s shoulder as he starts leading Tom away from the weight room, toward the exit. They’ve left the pavilion entirely and are walking on the footpath, toward their dorm, before Tommy finally says, “This grant is only for people who study abroad for a whole year.”

Tom wraps his arm around Tommy’s waist. “Yeah,” he says, his voice now quiet and reluctant. “But—you know. Like I said. It’s not—I don’t  _have_  to take it. Mom and Martin said they could pay for the one sem—”

“Do you want to do it?” Tommy interrupts. “Go for the whole year?”

Tom stares at him, mute and miserable. He gnaws at his lip. “I... don’t  _not_  want to go,” he says. It’s a complete non-answer, he knows that, even without Tommy giving him a look.

“Why don’t you want to go?” Tommy asks.

It’s Tom’s turn to give him a look. “Why do you think?” He replies. He tightens the arm wrapped around Tommy’s waist and frowns down at his feet.  _It’d be a year without this,_  he thinks. A year without waking up beside Tommy, or touching him, or—hell, even  _seeing_  Tommy, and Tom doesn’t know if he can—

“Hey,” Tommy says suddenly.

Tom glances up.

Tommy is frowning at him, mouth turned down at the corners, and the sight makes Tom’s heart clench. The words leap onto his tongue – a panicked torrent of  _no, no, forget it, I’m sorry, I won’t go, I won’t leave, please don't look like that, I'm sorry_ – when Tommy abruptly stops walking. He tugs Tom off the footpath, onto the grass, and then the arm around Tom’s shoulders becomes a hand cradling the back of his head. Tommy pulls Tom forward and presses their foreheads together.

“I’m proud of you, Hansen,” Tommy says quietly. “Really fucking proud. Just because I’m gonna miss you like crazy doesn’t mean you should give this up. Don’t be an idiot.”

Tom sighs. His shoulders relax, although the heaviness in the pit of his stomach doesn’t fade in the least. He pulls back, but only so he can press his face against the side of Tommy’s neck; breathes in the scent of him because, in just a few months, he’s not going to be able to. “I don’t deserve you,” he mumbles.

“Nah, you don’t,” Tommy says breezily. It’s a good approximation of his usual nonchalance, but he’s starting to stroke Tom’s hair, winding it around his fingers compulsively, like he always does when he’s anxious. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

 

* * *

**May, 2001**

“Wait,  _wait,_ ” Evan says. He waves a hand insistently in Tom’s face, expression disbelieving. “You’re going to be gone for the whole year, and you guys are gonna try the long distance thing?”

Tom swats his hand away. He frowns at the phrasing. “We’re not going to  _try_  the long distance thing,” he says. “We’re going to  _do_  the long distance thing.”

He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of Evan’s dorm room, his study notes spread around him in a semi-circle. Two other members of Tom’s study group, Suhrita and Eliza, sit just beyond his paper and textbook barrier. They’re ostensibly studying for the ECS final, but Eliza had called for a break after three hours, claiming her eyes were starting to cross. After that, it hadn’t taken long for conversation to turn to the upcoming Rome study tour. It had taken even less time to turn to Tom and Tommy, and the fact they apparently hadn’t broken up yet in the lead up to said study tour.

 _Yet_  being the operative word.

“I dunno, man,” Evan says, after a quick glance at Suhrita and Eliza. “It’s a year. That’s... a seriously long time. Most people are only going for a semester.”

“Yeah? And?”

“What he  _means,_ ” Eliza says, “is that most people are only going for one semester, and some of them have already broken up with their girlfriends and boyfriends.”

Tom frowns. “Well—good for them,” he says shortly. “Tommy and I aren’t.” He turns back to his notes, ignoring the looks being exchanged over his head by the other three. It isn’t until Suhrita sighs, long and loud, that he looks up again.

“Alright,” Suhrita says, tossing her pen aside. “I’ll say it, since you two are obviously too chicken shit to say it.” She turns away from Evan and Eliza, and points at Tom. “First off, I think you’re a sweet guy. And I think you and Tommy are really cute together. What I’m about to say—it’s not because I hate you, or because I think you guys are bad for each other. Okay?”

Tom looks at her warily. “Okay.”

Suhrita fixes him with a firm stare. “It’s really,  _really_  unfair of you to expect Tommy to sit around for a year, waiting for you.” She holds up a hand when Tom opens his mouth, outraged. “Let me finish before you start arguing.” Tom shuts his mouth reluctantly.

“Let me guess,” Suhrita says. “You’re thinking about about setting up a time to talk to each other, every third day or something.” She waits until Tom nods. “And you’ll want to e-mail in between, I’m guessing.”

Tom nods again, wondering where she’s going with this.

Suhrita nods as well, like her worst fears have been confirmed. “It’s seriously hard to keep to that sort of schedule, y’know?” She says, dark eyes solemn. “Stuff happens. People invite you out for stuff and you get back late. Your internet or your computer craps out. You get held up. You get busy. And when you’re  _that_  far away from each other? Well…” Suhrita shrugs. “It’s  _really_  easy to assume the worst.”

“We’re not breaking up,” Tom says. “We’ve—been together for ages. We’ve been best friends since we were  _fourteen_. You don’t end something like that over a study trip.”  _You don’t end it, period,_  he wants to say, but Evan and Suhrita’s skeptical expressions haven’t changed one bit. Eliza looks less skeptical, but she hasn’t exactly spoken up in support of Tom either.

“It  _does_  happen a lot, though,” Evan says. “Even to couples who’ve been together for a long time. And it messes people up when it happens.”

“Exactly,” Suhrita says. “Better to call it off, or call a break, then get back together when you come back. That way, if anything happens - on his side or yours - there are no hurt feelings.”

If anything  _happens_? “ _Nothing_  is going to happen,” Tom says, tone freezing. “I don’t cheat. Tommy doesn’t either.”

“It happens all the time,” Suhrita says, ignoring his tone. “Ask around. Go talk to some of the senior archi students, if you don’t believe me. Everything starts off fine. But then one month passes. And then two months. And then three. And you start wondering. Like,  _why’d he miss my call?_  Or  _why wasn’t he online when he said he was going to be?_  And then it turns into  _what’s he doing while I’m not there_? Or he starts wondering that. That sort of shit eats away at relationships, man.”

“So, you’re saying—what?” Tom asks. “That just because we  _might_  - emphasis on the ‘might’ - have some doubts, I should call everything off? That’s kind of throwing the baby out with the bathwater, isn’t it? And it’d be really patronising toward Tommy, too.”

“It’s patronising if you decide it by yourself,” Suhrita corrects. “But you guys haven’t even  _talked_  about the idea, have you?”

“No,” Tom snaps. “We haven’t. Because  _we’re not going to_. And— _Christ_. I’m going to be missing him, too, you know.”

Suhrita shrugs. “You’ll be busy, seeing and doing new shit in Rome. He’s gonna be here, lonely and wondering. I’m just saying, you should have a  _really_  good think about whether it’s fair. To either of you.”

 

* * *

 

Tom thinks about it. He doesn’t want to, but he thinks about it.

He’s been told often enough, throughout his life, by various people, that he has a tendency to be selfish. He’s been told often enough - and he’s old enough now - that he’s mindful of it. And he tries his best not to be.

Is he being selfish now, he wonders?

But every time he looks at Tommy with the question -  _do you want to take a break?_  - heavy and bitter in his mouth—

Tommy grins at him. Or pulls him in for a kiss. Or says something ridiculous that makes him laugh, or drags him onto the couch for a hug, or tugs him over to the bed for something more, and the question—

The question dies on Tom’s lips every time.

He can’t ask it. He doesn’t  _want_  to ask it. He doesn’t even want to put the suggestion into Tommy’s mind. Because Tom doesn’t think he could bear it, if Tommy looked at him, his expression turned thoughtful and regretful, and said,  _yeah, maybe... maybe we should_.

So perhaps Suhrita is right, and Tom’s being selfish after all.

 

* * *

 

**June, 2001**

It’s incredibly easy to avoid talking about taking a break. It’s actually incredibly easy to avoid talking about  _Rome_. Because if Tom is determined to push the thought of breaking up out of his mind, Tommy seems determined to push away the thought of Tom leaving entirely.

When they’d cleared out their dorm at the end of semester, Tommy had resolutely ignored the way Tom divided his belongings into ‘things to take to Rome’ and ‘things to leave at home’.

Now, on summer break, they carry on like nothing has changed. Or they try to, anyway. They still play video games, and sit beside one another at joint family dinners. They still indulge Rachel’s every whim whenever they’re at Tom’s house, or when Irene is babysitting her.

But every time someone - Tom’s mom, or Irene, or even Tom’s dad, on one of his stilted visits - brings up Rome, Tommy falls silent, his expression turning almost sullen. Tom watches every mood shift anxiously, his stomach churning as he wonders:  _is this it?_  And if he clings to Tommy a little more after each little mood swing, and if Tommy clings back—well. Neither of them talks about it.

The weeks tick down and neither of them brings up Rome.

 

* * *

 

 **From:**  bren_conlon78@hotmail.com  
 **To:**  doolittle_82@hotmail.com  
 **Subject:**  there’s an elephant in the room

and it’s shitting on the carpet, man.  
  


 **From:**  doolittle_82@hotmail.com  
 **To:**  bren_conlon78@hotmail.com  
 **Subject:**  RE: there’s an elephant in the room

You too? God, thanks a lot. Why is everyone SO convinced we should break up? Also, this coming from the guy who married his high school sweetheart?  
 

 **From:**  bren_conlon78@hotmail.com  
 **To:**  doolittle_82@hotmail.com  
 **Subject:**  RE: RE: there’s an elephant in the room

me too what? and i didn’t say that. i meant you guys should talk about what you’re going to do about this whole year. stay together, take a break, whatever. you actually have to TALK about it, though.

i know my brother. he’s got his head buried so far in the sand he’s probably halfway to australia. you’re going to have to be the one who brings it up.

 

* * *

 

**July, 2001**

In the end, there’s nothing for it except to be blunt.

“So,” Tom says, as he hooks his foot around Tommy’s ankle. “I’m going to Rome in three weeks.”

He feels, more than sees, Tommy go still. He isn’t looking at Tommy; can’t quite bring himself to. They’re going to talk about this, but Tom doesn’t want to look at Tommy’s expression until he absolutely  _has_  to.

They’re side by side on the bed, pressed together from shoulder to ankle, but they’re not doing anything beyond that because the door is wide open. They’re at Tommy’s house, in Tommy’s room, and - even though they’re both over twenty-one - Irene still won’t abide them shutting the door. In Irene’s heart of hearts, Tom thinks he and Tommy will always be fourteen. However, at least she no longer walks up and down the hallway whenever Tom goes into Tommy’s room; that’s a pretty big improvement, in his opinion.

After a long silence, Tommy grunts noncommittally and says, “Yeah.”

Tom waits, but nothing else is forthcoming. He sighs. “We should probably talk about it.”

Tommy makes another sound, quiet and unhappy, and his shoulders slump. “Yeah,” he says. “Fine. Okay.”

Tom weighs up the pros and cons of resting his head on Tommy’s shoulder - the increased physical contact versus Irene’s disappointed stare if she happens to walk past - then decides it’s worth it. They’re still not looking at one another, which makes things easier. Somewhat. Kind of.

...Not really.

Tom takes another deep breath. “We need to talk about—”  _whether or not you want to stay together while I’m gone_.

He wills himself to say it, but the words lodge themselves in his throat - choking, constricting.

Fuck. Fuck it, he can’t say it. Not like this, not straight away. Tom changes tack.

“We’ve done this before,” he says, and he hopes his uneven tone is all in his imagination. “I mean, I’ve gone to Jersey and California to visit my family, and you—you went to Sydney last year. It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”

“You go away for two weeks, tops,” Tommy replies. “And I was in Sydney for a month. This is gonna be a  _year_.”

Fear hooks itself into Tom’s gut. “Yeah, but—” he says, before falling silent.

 _Jesus,_  he thinks.  _Jesus, this_ is _it_.

Trite phrases start tripping through his brain then; phrases he’s heard dozens, if not hundreds, of times before - all of them easy and comforting in their simplicity.  _‘Love conquers all’_  and  _‘better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’_ and _‘if he loves you, he’ll wait for you’_ and _‘if you love something, set it free’._

All of them apply. None of them apply. But there’s no one phrase, no path that Tom can follow to ensure he’ll get the outcome he wants. All he can do is talk, and trust Tommy, and hope.

“Some of the other archi students have been talking,” he says quietly. “To their girlfriends or their boyfriends about—” he swallows, “—about. Um. Having open relationships. Or taking a break. While they’re in Rome.”

There’s a beat.

And then Tommy pulls away.

He pulls away so quickly that Tom tips over, already off-balance from leaning against him. By the time he catches himself and looks up, Tommy is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at him, eyes flat. “You wanna fuck other people?” He asks.

Tom blinks, brow furrowing. “What?”  _Is that a joke?_  He wants to ask.

Tommy’s expression doesn’t change. “Do you want to fuck other people?” He repeats, enunciating each word with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel.

Tom’s eyes widen. “ _No,_ ” he says sharply. “No, I don’t want to, I was just...” he trails off, waving a hand vaguely, in the hopes that it can encompass everything. All the doubt, and the anxiety, and the worry.

“You were just?” Tommy prompts.

“I was just—putting it out there,” Tom says, stumbling a little because Tommy hasn’t stopped _staring_. “Because… because some people have argued that it’s unfair of me. To expect you to wait, and—” God. It feels like every word is being ripped out of him. “...I was just putting it out there as an option,” Tom repeats lamely. “For you. If you wanted it.”

“I don’t want it,” Tommy says immediately, voice clipped and mouth hard. “I want  _you_. I don’t want to think about you fucking some other guy, or some other girl, or—or whatever. I don’t want it.”

Tom stares at him, bewildered. “I’m not going to fuck some other guy,” he says finally. “Or some other girl. Or whatever. I don’t want to think about  _you_  doing that either.” How had this even turned into a discussion of  _Tom_  sleeping around?

Tommy unrelenting stare becomes a little less unrelenting, muddied as it is by confusion and hurt. “Then why’d you say it?”

Tom makes a helpless gesture. “I don’t know?” he says automatically, although he does. When Tommy makes a skeptical noise, Tom amends his answer to: “It’s just… so many people were bringing up the idea, I was starting to wonder if I was doing something wrong. If I’d missed some kind of memo or something, and you were just… waiting for me to say it.”

Tommy shrugs. “You didn’t. I wasn’t,” he says. After a pause he adds, “Just because they’re doing it, doesn’t mean that we should. Just because their relationships are shitty, doesn’t mean that ours is.”

Tom blinks. Then he laughs. It’s weak and shaky, but he laughs. “Jesus, Tommy.”

“What?” Tommy says, mouth crooking up into a half-smile. “It’s true.”

“Maybe,” Tom says. “That  _may_  be true. I’m not going to pass judgement on other people’s relationships, though—” he takes the mature path and ignores Tommy’s snort, “—but if we’re not taking a break, we need to talk about what we’re going to do. How we’re going to keep in touch. When, and how often. Things like that.”

Tommy moves back onto the bed proper. Shuffles in close until he’s pressed against Tom once more, from hip to thigh. He drapes an arm over Tom’s shoulders for good measure. “So, what do you wanna do?” He asks. “You’re the planning guy.”

Tom thinks for a minute. “We’ll have e-mail,” he says. “I don’t know what the internet connection will be like over there, but I’ll figure out a way to e-mail you.” He glances sidelong at Tommy. “Is once a day too much, or—?”

“No,” Tommy says quickly. “It’s not too much.”

“Right,” Tom says. “Okay. And... we’ll have to work out times when we can talk to each other. The time difference between here and Rome is pretty insane. And our schedules will make it harder.”

Tommy nods slowly. He says nothing for a few moments, then frowns and spits out abruptly, “I fucking hate your degree sometimes.”

Tom smiles without humour. “...You’re sure you want to do this?” He asks.

He doesn’t know why he asks. It’s not like he  _wants_  Tommy to second-guess being with him. But he doesn’t want Tommy changing his mind while Tom’s in Rome either. Tom thinks he kind of fucking hates his degree, too.

The arm around his shoulders tightens. “Yeah,” Tommy says. “I’m sure. I can wait a year. I’ll jerk my cock fucking raw thinking about you, but I can wait.”

Tom bursts out laughing, loud and bright this time. The tension in his gut evaporates and his mood lifts, buoyed by Tommy’s answering smile.

“I love you,” Tom says simply. He presses his mouth to Tommy’s in a quick, chaste kiss. “ _God_ , I love you.”

Tommy’s smile widens. He cups the back of Tom’s neck and tugs him in for another kiss, longer and deeper.

They spend a few minutes pushing their luck - kissing hard, hands snaking beneath one another’s shirts - before Tom pulls back, cheeks flushed.

“Uh. Another thing,” he says. “I’ve been researching. Kind of. Ways to—” he pauses to recall the titles of the articles he’s been reading. ‘ _Ways to Keep the Intimacy Alive'_ had been a popular one. Tom’s not saying that, though. “Things we can do while we’re apart,” is what he eventually settles on saying.

“Yeah?” Tommy says. “Like what?”

“We can take pictures. And—and videos.”

There’s a long pause.

“Pictures,” Tommy says slowly. “And videos.”

“You know,” Tom says, flushing a darker red. “Of us. Together.” He coughs a little. “I mean—if you’re into that idea.”

Tommy smiles hesitantly, almost shyly. And it will never cease to amaze Tom, honestly, that Tommy  _ever_ gets hesitant or shy around him. “Yeah,” Tommy says, his eyes dark and his voice lower than usual. “I’m into that.” His Adam’s apple bobs visibly as he swallows. “Really into that.”

Tom beams, even though his heart is trip-hammering in his chest, his cheeks are burning, and things are more than a little uncomfortable in his jeans. “Great,” he says breathlessly. “Okay, great. I’ll—borrow Martin’s camcorder tomorrow.” He pauses, then smiles slyly and leans in to give Tommy another kiss. “We could try practicing now, though,” he says - murmurs, really - against Tommy’s mouth.

Tommy groans into the kiss. “ _Here?_ ” He says, pulling back and casting a paranoid glance over Tom’s shoulder, like he half-expects his mom to materialise in the doorway, armed with a stern look and a pointed  _‘boys’_.

Tom sits back, too. “Shit,” he says. He smiles ruefully. “Right.”

They stare at one another for a beat. Then—

“The car,” they say, almost in unison. Tom grins. Tommy grins back.

It’s kind of a cliche, and maybe a little bit tacky, too - panting, half-clothed sex in the backseat of Tommy’s car, in the first deserted parking lot they can find. Still, cliche or no, it doesn’t go perfectly. Tom hits his head on the door handle twice; they almost fall off the backseat more than once, and the lighting isn’t exactly flattering. But it’s fine. They have three weeks to practice, and to get it right. And even if they don’t, it’s the imperfect, ridiculous moments that will stay with them longest.

Tom will carry it all with him, across an ocean, across continents - all the teasing, and the laughter, and the wild, heart-stuttering joy. They’re the things that will stay with him, long after the blood rush has faded.

Tom is leaving, but he isn’t leaving Tommy behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Meghan Daum's essay 'The Long and Short of Long-Distance Love'.
> 
> ("Because contrary to what the cynics say, distance is not for the fearful; it's for the bold.")


End file.
